


Black Flowers

by flamewarrior



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Veela
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-02
Updated: 2007-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamewarrior/pseuds/flamewarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War leads to strange bed fellows and stranger magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Flowers

Harry looks at himself in the mirror, taking in the planes of his own face.

Is this the face of a killer?

He pushes his fringe up to expose his forehead and runs a forefinger over his scar. The mark of Voldemort's hatred; the mark of his mother's love.

He thinks of Ginny's eyes, her hair, her soft skin, her understanding.

How can he love and kill?

 

Draco ran, bent over, hand pressed against the stitch in his side. Snape had vanished into the darkness between the trees. Draco kept going, sure of nothing but his need to escape.

He lost all sense of time. He was aware only of the pain in his chest and his side, the trembling in his legs.

Eventually, he fell. He lay, unable to rise, breathing in the musky scent of rotting leaves and fox piss. Now that his body was still, his mind and heart could move. Tears trickled from his eyes and a shaking in his chest, weak but unstoppable, wrung sobs from his mouth.

He hadn't been able to do it, not even for his mother.

He lay on the damp earth between tree roots, crying for his mother and for himself until sleep took him.

 

Draco woke for the tenth time, this time to darkness and a sharp, repetitive pain on his forehead. He moved his head and found his mouth full of feathers. He lifted his gaze to see a white owl, staring at him with wide, yellow eyes. Draco pushed himself up onto his hands so as to look down on the bird.

There was a tightly rolled parchment tied to its right leg which, now that it had his attention, it held out towards him. Draco blinked. The owl blinked.

Draco rolled onto his side and rifled through his robe. Heaving a sigh of relief, he pulled his wand from within its folds and cast a battery of spells at both parchment and bird. At last certain of its safety, he untied it and rolled it open, lighting it with faint spell-glimmer from the tip of his wand.

Dumbledore offered you safety. I offer it too. Apparate to Platform 93/4 at 2pm tomorrow afternoon and we'll take you somewhere safe. Glamour yourself and wear a red carnation.

H.P.  
on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix

 

Draco blinked again, rapidly. His fingers began to shake. The words swam before his eyes.

He was crying.

 

The windows trembled in their casements, battered by rain and wind.

"Narcissa."

A voice hissed from the fireplace, barely audible over the storm.

"Narcissa," it hissed again, "I have news of your son; I have news of Draco."

In a heart beat, a pale, thin face appeared in the frame of the fireplace. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her make-up immaculate, but her eyes were wild. She knelt on her hands and knees on the rug.

"Severus!"

Her voice was quiet, ragged.

"Narcissa, listen. Draco is safe. You must come with me, now!"

Severus stretched his hand through into the room, bearing a small slip of parchment. Narcissa read it and shook her head weakly.

"I don't..."

Severus grasped her hand and she turned her wide eyes to him again.

"Draco needs you. Come now!"

The whispered command fell into the quiet of the room. Narcissa's hand trembled beneath his fingers, then pulled back from his grip as she stood. A scattering of powder fell onto the rug.

Severus pulled his head back from the Floo and held his breath.

 

As Narcissa stepped out of the Floo, she felt trembling arms wrap around her. A voice barely more than a breath shifted her hair.

"Mummy."

She raised her arms, linking them around her son's slight waist, and held tight.

 

Harry had settled into the drawing room in grim mood. He was on guard duty, taking up where he had left off at Hogwarts, following Draco around every chance he got. But watching Malfoy hold his mother like that, seeing the emotions flicker across his face, Harry had felt a curious sense of benediction.

Malfoy and his mother relaxed their hold on one another finally, and Mrs Malfoy raised a finger to her son's face, her eyes glistening. Harry turned away, suddenly embarrassed at being witness to such emotion. He remembered Draco's face as he'd seen it in Myrtle's bathroom, the tear stains on his cheeks, the quaver in his voice.

"Mr Potter, I would like to speak to my son in private for a moment."

Mrs Malfoy's voice was sharp and clear.

Harry looked up and nodded.

"I'll take you up to your room."

He opened the door for them and directed them along the corridor and up the stairs, following behind after they had walked past him. As Harry looked at their linked fingers, at Malfoy's pale head bent down to rest against his mother's, he felt his heart lift in his chest.

 

Harry feels safe. He has no memory of ever feeling any other way. He is resting against something soft and warm. It moves like breathing and the tips of feathers brush gently over his shoulders, his face.

Harry feels loved.

When he opens his eyes to yellowing wallpaper, the shabby decadence of Grimmauld Place, and finds himself alone in his bed, he wants to cry.

 

The fumes rise, swirling in silver and violet. Severus Snape is used to it, and stares impassively into his cauldron, watching for the shift from green to peacock blue.

Narcissa Malfoy, however, hasn't brewed a potion since her final year at Hogwarts. Her eyes are streaming and she dabs at their corners with a silk handkerchief. Her other hand holds three flower stems, heads removed. She is waiting for Snape's signal to add them, one at a time.

A tear-trail she has missed tracks unnoticed down her cheek and falls, sizzling as it hits the blue flame below the cauldron. She gasps, looking into the cauldron then up to Snape's face; she sees no change in either the potion or his expression. She calms herself and returns to dabbing and waiting.

 

White flecks swirl before Narcissa's eyes. It looks like snow. She knows it cannot be. It is only August and she is kneeling in the garden at the Blacks' town house, wearing only a fine cotton robe.

She stretches out her hand and catches a piece of the falling whiteness. It stays there, not melting, so soft that she cannot even feel it against her skin. Her breath causes its edges to move.

A feather.

Where has it come from? She looks up to the sky, blue above her, and sees a dark, uneven shape rising far off, moving away. A bird of prey then, catching its next meal.

The downy feathers end their dancing fall. They are scattered now across the lawn and the flower bed in which Narcissa has been working. She pats the soil, then waves her wand above it and casts a silent spell.

 

Remus watches Kingsley preparing the table. A white cloth, pristine and out of place in the dusty setting, is already laid over the mahogany. Now Kingsley is making a short tower from three wooden boxes turned on their sides, open tops facing the room.

Remus doesn't understand the meaning of it. He's never come across anything remotely like it before and he has, to his regret, become familiar with many funerary rites over the years. For the past eight nights they've kept a candle burning in this room, joined by a lantern on the back step on the night of the funeral itself.

Tomorrow, there will be a memorial service in a Muggle church. Remus will be attending of course, Minerva accompanying him, one of the few in the Order whom Ted and Andromeda will recognise and welcome.

Kingsley has just finished arranging some peonies and lilacs in a clear vase; he places it in the top layer of his precarious construction.

"Do you have the picture you picked out?"

Kingsley's voice is rich and soft, deep like the rumble of far-away thunder. It breaks Remus from his reverie and he opens the satchel at his side, lifting out a photograph of Nymphadora. It had been taken at the Burrow just a week earlier. Dora, Harry and the Weasleys playing five-a-side Quidditch, the Dora in the picture looping the loop and laughing as she nearly lost grip of her broom, looping the loop, over and over again.

Remus glances at the picture, holds his breath as he hands it to Kingsley. He can neither laugh nor cry at the memory her image conjures. He does not feel enough, has never felt enough. Passion and hunger are the wolf's paths into the world; Remus can allow himself neither.

Kingsley has arranged black and white candles in the three boxes and is placing the final glass of water. Three tiers, a glass of water in each, surrounded by the black and white candles and on the top tier the vase of flowers, the picture of Dora resting against it.

A smile slips through to lighten Remus's taut features. The flowers clash with Dora's hair horribly.

She would have liked that.

 

Remus looked at the bunch of flowers in his hand in bemusement.

"Er... thank you, Mrs Malfoy."

Narcissa Malfoy was looking at his hands, wrapped around the stems of the black-petalled narcissus flowers she had just given to him. She waved her hand in a weak gesture of dismissal.

"If you would be so kind as to give these to Andromeda."

Remus cleared his throat.

"Would you like me to pass on any message?"

"No, no. She will understand."

Mrs Malfoy turned and walked back up the stairs, the train of her long, widow's robe trailing in stilted movements behind her.

 

Draco is standing on the top step of the grand entrance of Malfoy Manor. He pushes on the door, but it won't open. He feels for his wand to cast Alohomora, but his pockets and sleeves are empty. Everything around him is still and quiet but he feels an odd sense that someone is watching him, that something is about to happen.

He turns around to look down the long carriageway, lined with lime trees, which stretches away from the house. The gravel, the lawn, the leaves on the trees, everything is glowing and golden. Draco blinks his eyes against the brightness.

A shimmering whisper - like children laughing and the still before a summer storm and a pine forest under an easterly wind and like nothing he has ever heard - sounds behind him. A shiver runs up his neck and he spins around. His father is standing before him, between Draco and the wide open door.

"Draco."

"Father?"

His father and yet not his father - Draco can hardly look at him, he is so bright.

"Hold out your hand, my son."

Draco does as he is told. A ring, solid silver, heavy, carved with an M made of feathers, falls into his palm.

"This is yours now, Draco. This is your inheritance. Embrace it."

The luminous shape that is his father leans towards him. There is a sound like a sail billowing in the wind and Draco is surrounded by shining feathers. He gasps.

"Tell your mother the full inheritance is yours."

His father's voice is soft and Draco feels warm lips upon his forehead. Then the feathers sweep away and carry his father, brilliant, to the sky.

Draco gazes after him until he blends into the blue above. Dazed, he takes a tentative step through the still open door...

...and wakes. His mother's face, brow furrowed even in sleep, is before him, her head resting on the single, greying pillow the Order has spared them.

"Mother," he whispers, and gently shakes her by the arm. "Mother, wake up."

 

Narcissa looked at the dark petals in her hand. She shouldn't have risked so many of the flowers in the bouquet, but she couldn't help herself. Andromeda was still her sister, and they were both in mourning. Sentimentality had always been her weakness.

The motion of Snape's head, nodding, broke her reverie, and she sprinkled the black flower heads into the cauldron. Whatever Lucius said, even from beyond the grave, she could not risk Draco. Losing Lucius was more than enough.

 

Draco dragged his feet step by step along the landing. He had never thought of study as tiring before, but the Black family library seemed to drain all life from him. Or perhaps it was the company. Whatever the cause, he had no energy left today for scanning tightly cramped words.

He stretched out his hand to open the door to the room he and his mother shared and found it remained firmly closed. He tried again. Still no movement.

Puzzled, and shivering from memories of his dream, he drew out his wand and opened the door with magic.

"Mother, what's wrong? Why have you shut the..."

He stopped mid-sentence, mouth half-open, two steps into the room. The door creaked behind him, shutting with a click.

"Professor..."

Severus Snape ignored Draco's presence entirely, all of his attention focused on the small cauldron in front of him. Draco turned his gaze to his mother.

"Mother, what are you doing?"

His mother did not look at him. She looked down at her hands. Draco walked over to her, movements unsure.

"Mother?"

His voice was a whisper as he reached out to touch her arm.

"Mother? What are you doing?"

His mother continued to look at her hands, but Draco knew she had heard him; her brow was creased and her lips began to tremble, but she still did not respond to him.

"Narcissa."

Draco jumped as Severus came into his awareness again. His voice was soft, commanding.

"Narcissa, he deserves to know. He's not a boy anymore."

His mother's shoulders raised in tension; she drew in a shuddering breath. Her sudden grip on his fingers made Draco wince. Finally, her gaze moved to him, if only to his hand.

"Draco, Draco darling," at last, her red-rimmed eyes met his, "Professor Snape is quite correct. It is," she swallowed visibly, "it is time for me to," a breath, "to fully inform you of your inheritance."

 

Draco looked at the goblet in his hands. It was made of solid metal - he did not know which, only that its surface glistened dully in the light from the candles which animated the castings around its base and bowl.

Snakes writhed around the ankles of naked human forms, feathered wings extending from their shoulders. Their faces were hidden from view. There were words carved into the rim and around the edge of the base. Draco read: Coeur, corps, âme - toujours pur and Les purs n'ont jamais besoin de peur.

"Draco," Snape's voice cut into Draco's reverie, "drink."

Draco looked up, his eyes darting from Snape's blank face to his mother. She held a goblet of her own, gazing into its bowl. She was so beautiful. Her skin glowed in the light reflecting from her silver robe.

Her eyes flicked to Snape, then to Draco. She raised her goblet to him across the fireplace. As Draco lifted his own in salute, his chest prickled in fear.

 

When Harry opened the door to the bathroom, he'd experienced a moment of prickling déjà vu. There was someone else already there.

Draco was sitting on the edge of the bath, knuckles white, rocking forwards and backwards. He made no sound but the irregular huff and sigh of his breathing.

Instead of quietly turning back down the hall, drawn by something he couldn't fathom, Harry made his way towards Draco and sat beside him. Draco raised his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face unevenly spread with pink. He looked at Harry as if he'd never seen him before.

Harry tentatively reached a hand towards Draco's shoulder and patted gently.

"Draco, I... I'm really sorry about your mum being ill. I..."

Harry ran out of words. At the mention of his mother, Draco's face had creased into tense dips and furrows. He grabbed the front of Harry's shirt and Harry thought for a moment that Draco would head-butt him. Then confusion flickered in Draco's eyes and his face crumpled into misery. His forehead dropped onto Harry's shoulder, he buried his face against Harry's chest and he sobbed and sobbed.

Harry looked down at Draco, his back shaking under his robe, his tears soaking into Harry's shirt, and felt his heart break. On instinct, Harry put his arms around Draco as he shivered; Draco collapsed into him completely, the heat from his body searing Harry's skin even through the fabric of their clothes.

A stab of worry cut into Harry's gut. Was Draco unwell? Did he have a fever? Harry clung tightly to Draco's limp form, nauseous at the thought of letting him go, terrified by that fact.

 

Narcissa looked down at the mess of her body, a patchwork of flesh, scales, feathers. She closed her eyes, unlodging tears as she turned her head against the pillow, and pulled the blankets up to her chin.

 

Ron looked over Hermione's shoulder. She was bent over a large bowl of water, staring into it.

"What are you up to, love?"

Hermione sighed, leaning back and stretching her arms high above her head. Ron rested his hands on her shoulders, gingerly rubbing at her tight muscles.

"Trying to see."

"You mean you're scrying? But you think divination's a load of rubbish."

Hermione sighed again.

"Not divination, trying to see what's happening now. All I get are fuzzy images of feathers in the dark."

Ron gave a few last, smooth strokes of his hands over her shoulders. He squeezed her arms then, bending to kiss the top of her head.

"Come on, it's late. Let's get to bed."

 

Harry peeled the layers of fabric from around the object in his hand. His breath hitched as the glass and metal were revealed. The mirror fit in his palm perfectly.

Hermione had mended it with a simple flick of her wand when Harry had asked her. The look on her face as she'd done so had held volumes of questions, none of which she had voiced. It was just as well: he wouldn't have answered them.

Harry looked at the mirror now, its surface copper-spotted with age. He saw his own troubled face reflected there.

"Sirius," he whispered, "Sirius, I really need to talk."

Harry stared into his own eyes, waiting.

"Please."

There was no response. Even though it was no more than he expected, Harry still felt his chest tighten. He quashed his distress, carefully wrapped the mirror back into a non-descript bundle and turned off the light. He sat, still and silent on the edge of his bed, cradling the fabric in his lap until dawn began to show through the rips in the curtains at his window.

 

Draco looked down at his mother's sleeping form. Snape had finally found the right combination of potions to calm her. He was watching over her from the other side of the bed.

"We must inform the Order."

Draco swallowed at Snape's words.

"No."

Draco's voice was hoarse. He kept his eyes on his mother's face.

"I know it is a risk, Draco, but your mother needs more care than I can give her. Lupin may be a werewolf, but he can be trusted."

"No."

"Draco, I can keep your mother from suffering, but I cannot keep her alive for much longer, perhaps a week, two at most."

Draco blinked.

"I... I don't know, Severus." He looked up into Snape's dark eyes and swallowed. "Would she want to live like this?"

Snape held his gaze and Draco saw, for just a moment, such depths of pain in his eyes that he gasped. Snape looked down. Draco followed his eyes back to his mother's face. He felt the twinge of tears threatening under his eyelids. He leant forward to kiss his mother's forehead, the hair and feathers of her fringe fluttering under his breath.

Draco stood and turned towards the door. He looked down and straightened his robe before squaring his shoulders, despite the pang in his chest.

"Do what you think is best."

His voice was clear, and although there were tears trailing down his cheeks, his step was firm as he left the room.

 

Remus pored over the notes on his desk, the ends of the parchment curling over his fingers. Despite the close attention he'd paid, he couldn't remember a single name or date he'd read in the past twenty minutes.

Remus released the top of the parchment to rub his hand over his tired eyes. The parchment curled in on itself instantly and he let it roll closed, pushing it towards the pile at the back of his desk.

He was saved from further attempts at work by a knock on the door, followed immediately by the sound of someone pushing it open and slamming it behind them.

"Remus, is it true?"

Remus rubbed his forehead, sighed and turned round.

"Is what true, Harry?"

"That Snape's been living in my house for the past six months and I didn't even know about it!"

"Please, Harry, keep your voice down. You'll wake Mrs Black's portrait."

Harry scowled but did as Remus asked.

"Well?"

Remus stood.

"Harry, why don't you come and take a seat with me by the fire and we can discuss this over a cup of tea."

"I don't want a fucking cup of tea."

Harry kept his voice down, but he spoke through gritted teeth.

"Please, Harry? When I tell you what I know, I think you'll be glad of a seat."

Harry stomped over to the fireplace and threw himself into one of the armchairs there. He glared up at Remus, face made demonic for a moment by the reflected orange flicker of burning wood.

Remus swallowed, shivering at the image, then moved to the seat opposite Harry's. He lifted his wand to conjure tea, then changed his mind and instead sent an Accio after two tumblers and a bottle of Firewhisky. Harry's look turned to one of blank surprise.

"Remus?"

Remus poured them both two fingers’ worth and handed one of the tumblers to Harry. The sharp tingle of alcohol fumes filled his nostrils.

"Take a sip," he said, and demonstrated with his own glass.

He watched as Harry brought his tumbler gingerly to his lips. The firelight reflecting off the glass in Harry's hand and the spectacles on his face seemed suddenly amusing, not hellish, and Remus allowed himself a deep breath.

Harry rested his glass awkwardly between his hands, the tiniest puff of smoke escaping between his lips as he looked warily across at Remus. Remus breathed out through his nose in a quiet sigh. He looked down at the whisky and the reflected fire in his own hands.

"Severus Snape is the Secret Keeper of the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, and has been since before Albus's death. I know you have strong reason to question Severus's loyalty," Remus held his hand up at Harry's snort of disbelief, "but if he were really loyal to Voldemort, don't you think this house would be swarming with Death Eaters by now?"

Silence followed Remus's quiet speech. He looked up at Harry and felt an ache in his chest. The look on Harry's face was one of utter bewilderment, followed swiftly by pain as his face contorted in a failed attempt to prevent tears.

Suddenly the fire flared, accompanied by the discordance of breaking glass. Harry had thrown his Firewhisky, glass and all, into the grate. Now his head was down and he was pulling at his fringe with trembling hands.

"No. No. Just... no! I can't take any more of this!"

Harry's voice was thick. He looked up at Remus with despair in his eyes.

"My life can't do this to me any more. Can't things just be simple? I can't take much more, Remus. I feel like I'm going mad. I," he closed his eyes, "I wouldn't be surprised if you told me Ron's become a Death Eater and Voldemort's fallen in love with a centaur."

Remus ignored Harry's weak joke.

"You said you 'can't take much more'. What else is there, Harry?"

Harry quickly turned his gaze back to his trembling fingers.

"I..." he took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes; when he lifted his head, Remus could see that they were bloodshot and glassy. When he spoke, Remus had to concentrate to hear him over the crackling of the fire.

"I really think I'm going mad, Remus."

Harry paused and flicked his eyes to the bottle of Firewhisky resting on the rug between them. Remus waited for him to continue.

"I..."

Harry fretted his lower lip between his teeth, then pressed his lips together hard. His brow wrinkled and his nostrils flared, then he released his lips, licked them, and continued.

"A few days ago, I came across Malfoy crying in the first floor bathroom. I went in to comfort him. I should have left him alone, but I couldn't turn away."

Harry sniffed and rubbed a finger over the top of his nose. "I... all I did was hug him while he cried all over me, but since then I..."

Harry's voice trailed away. He looked at his feet. When he spoke again, his  
voice was barely a whisper.

"He's all I can think about, if he's well, if he'll be safe. I can hardlly bear to be more than a room away from him."

Realisation dawned on Remus as Harry looked up at him with eyes full of painful questions. He took another sip of his Firewhisky.

"Was this before or after Mrs Malfoy became ill?"

"After."

"Ah."

Harry looked at him anxiously.

"What's going on, Remus?"

Remus rolled his tumbler between his hands and looked away from Harry to the fire. What should he say? It took him two breaths to make his decision.

He looked back at Harry.

"I think you need to ask Mr Malfoy that."

 

Harry looked at the thick, mahogany door before him. He had been filled with righteous anger when he'd left Remus's makeshift study, but somewhere from there to here his anger had dissolved to leave only a nervous jumping in his gut.

He lifted his hand and knocked on the door, then clasped both hands behind his back as he waited. He was thinking of knocking again when the door opened just enough to reveal Malfoy's face.

"Yes?"

Malfoy’s face, like his voice, was carefully blank.

"Malfoy, I need to ask you something."

Malfoy looked over his shoulder into the room behind him, then back at Harry.

"Can't it wait? Mother's sleeping and I don't want to leave her."

"Well, could I come in? I'll be really quiet."

"It can't be that important, surely, Potter?"

Malfoy's face held genuine confusion, and Harry could tell he was anxious to be left alone. But Harry couldn't leave, not after what Remus had said.

"It's very important, and..." Harry paused, wondering what to say so that Malfoy would let him in. "Malfoy, it's really important and really personal and Remus said I needed to ask you about it."

Harry could feel the heat of a blush rising in his cheeks. As if in answer, Malfoy's cheeks pinked immediately. He cleared his throat.

"You'd better come in then."

Malfoy held the door open and stepped aside to let Harry in. As Harry passed him, Malfoy laid a hand on his forearm. A shiver travelled from where his fingers rested all the way up to Harry's shoulder. Harry pulled his arm away slightly.

"You really do need to be quiet. The slightest noise wakes Mother and it takes her hours to get back to sleep again."

Harry followed Malfoy into the room. It was very dark. The walls were covered in aged and pitted wood panelling and the curtains were drawn both at the windows and around the bed which stood to one side. The only light came from a single candle on the desk in the far corner of the room. Malfoy walked over to the desk and held a wooden chair out for Harry.

Once Harry had sat, Malfoy settled himself into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Was he nervous? Harry watched, fascinated.

"So, Potter, what did you want to know?"

Harry felt his face heat again as he realised what he was about to admit. He fixed his gaze on a knot in the grain of the wooden desk top.

"Ever since," Harry paused. How to phrase this? "Ever since the bathroom, here I mean, I've been really worried about you. I don't feel right if I'm too far away from you," as he said the words Harry could feel the beginnings of anger burning in his chest. He looked up at Malfoy, curling his lip, hissing through his teeth, "and I want to know why, Malfoy."

Malfoy's face went completely white, so quickly that it looked as if something had sucked all his blood away. He covered his face with his hands.

"Oh God, it worked."

In the silence of the room, Malfoy's whisper was crystal clear. Anger for himself and concern for Malfoy roiled together in Harry's gut.

"What have you done to me?"

Malfoy let his hands drop into his lap. His face and voice held the weariness of a man four times his age. For the first time, he looked Harry directly in the eye.

"Nothing. I haven't done anything to you. My ancestors have done something to me, though. Bastards. What's happening to you is just a side effect."

"What are you talking about, Malfoy?"

Malfoy took a deep breath and held it, as if he wanted to stop time. The he released it and his whole body spoke defeat.

"Once upon a time, hundreds of years ago, one of my illustrious Black ancestors decided he'd like to be able to fly." Draco's voice was acid with sarcasm. "Not the normal way, with a broom, oh no, he wanted to fly with wings. He struck a deal of some sort with a Veela, so every Black heir, or his regent, ever since gets to flap about like a great overgrown pigeon." Malfoy's voice was bitter now. "But there's a risk. Every so many generations, the heir gets more than wings. And sometimes, the changes don't quite... take."

Malfoy swallowed again and his eyes lost their focus.

"Mother was trying to save me from that risk."

Malfoy's brows wrinkled together and he took in a gasping breath, as if in pain. Before he could stop himself, Harry was out of his chair and on the other side of the desk with his arm around Malfoy's shoulders. Malfoy tensed. Harry spoke quietly, not wanting to startle him.

"It's what mothers do, sacrifice themselves to keep their children safe."

It must have been the right thing to say, because Malfoy slowly rested his head back against Harry's chest and let out a choking noise. Harry pressed his face into Malfoy's hair. It was soft against his lips, his cheek.

"Tell me it's going to be alright, Potter."

Harry flung his other arm around Malfoy, embracing him fully. Malfoy's hand gripped his forearm.

"It's going to be alright, Malfoy."

Harry voice was thick with the lie. He didn't care. He would make it true.

 

Harry is resting on soft, warm skin, lulled into half-sleep by the movements of the breathing body beneath him. A wing curves protectively over him, feather-tips brushing gently over his shoulder, his face.

Resting in this moment with Draco, surrounded by the yellowing wallpaper of his room, the shabby decadence of Grimmauld Place, Harry feels safe; he feels loved.

Even halfway to sleep he thinks he would do almost anything to keep that feeling.

 

Harry looks at himself in the mirror, reassessing the planes of his face, the scar on his forehead. How can he look the same when everything in his life is different?

He remembers the question he asked himself those months ago, standing in front of the mirror, just like this. How can he love and kill?

He was so uncertain then. Now all he has to do is think of someone, anyone, harming Draco, and he's sure of his answer.

 

The first time, Draco is resigned. This is how it will be, both of them reluctant, powerless to resist. For a moment, while he still has thoughts, for the first time in his life, Draco hates magic.

The second time, Draco can't help it. When Potter trails his finger, oh so gently, over the hollow of Draco's throat, his pulse quickens, his skin heats and he can feel a flush spreading up his neck. He hates his body for its betrayal.

The third time, Potter asks Draco to spread his wings. Draco can't say no. He wills wing-buds to rise between his shoulder blades, bones to grow, feathers to sprout. He stands, naked, his white pinions refracting the dull light of Potter's room onto his skin in a dozen rainbows. Potter touches a feather reverently, sighs in awe. It is the first time that Draco does not hate.

The fourth time, after their bodies are spent, Potter does not move away, does not dress, but rests against Draco, stroking his arm with tender fingertips. He lifts his head to gaze at Draco's face and leans towards him. He hovers for long seconds, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, then kisses Draco, softly, as though he is the most precious person in the whole world. Draco feels a strange sensation in his chest, as if his wings are on the inside, not curled over Potter's sweaty back. Potter whispers, "I love you."

The fifth time, they hold each other, and kiss, and drift to sleep wrapped in each other's warmth. As he slips into dreams, Draco thinks, "I love you, too."

 

Hermione sat by herself, knees clutched against breasts, gazing into the camp fire. One more day and they would be at Little Hangleton.

She knew she should go back to the tent, but the thought of lying in the dark all night listening to Ginny pretending to be asleep made her shiver. No, she would sit here, the glow of the fire keeping the creeping loneliness at bay.

She gazed into the shimmering heart of the fire, following the flames upwards with her eyes until she was watching orange sparks, like tiny salamanders leaping to the heavens. As she continued to stare at the sky, the stars revealed themselves until the Milky Way stretched out above her like a road, a dark gateway across its centre guarded by two bright points. A shooting star cut the blackness between them. Hermione's eyes opened wide and before she could stop her childish instinct, she sent out a wish.

A crushing, clenching sensation filled her chest as she repeated the words of the wish over to herself. Her lips began to tremble. She closed her eyes tightly, the Milky Way black inside her eyelids against the shifting, oil-drop brightness of the night.

She rested her forehead against her knees and let the tears come.

 

Ron ran, head down, back bent double. Remus covered him, shooting a volley of spells that whistled overhead in bursts of red light. Ron stumbled on the edge of his robe, fell down, picked himself up again, carried on running, stumbling. His shoes and ankles were caked in mud, he was soaked to the skin and he had long ago given up trying to shake the wet straggles of his fringe out of his eyes.

He reached the protection of a stubby bush and ducked behind it, gulping down air and cold rain. He parted the thorns and the few remaining leaves to get his bearings. Where was Harry? He could barely make out one robed figure from another through the pelting drops. Beyond a few feet it softened the edges of everything he looked at, blended it all into a blur of black and white and grey, cut through with flashes of spell-colour. Nor did he recognise the voices grating out the spells, shouting in rage and triumph and pain.

Ron slumped. He had no hope of even identifying Harry, let alone finding him once he set off again into the melée. He gave a strangled grunt of frustration, then pulled his wand out and laid it flat on his palm.

"Point me Harry Potter."

Immediately his wand obeyed, pointing forward and to his left, into the battle. He clutched the wand in his hand again and set off, keeping low to the ground.

Suddenly, over the shouts and cries, he heard a screech that froze him in his tracks. He looked up. Ahead of him, in the direction his wand had pointed him, a huge, white shape hung in the sky. Through the distortion of the rain, it looked like a bird, but a bird bigger than any Ron had seen before. The screech came again and the might-be bird plummeted towards the earth, attaching itself to one of the dark shapes in the thick of the fighting.

Ron shook himself, looked down at his wand, and kept running. No matter what the fight entailed, he needed to be there to cover Harry's back. He was reaching the edge of the battle now. He ducked between the fighting forms, jumping just in time to avoid a Stupified body that slumped in front of him.

It was chaos. He couldn't tell who was Order and who was Death Eater, so he just kept running, ducking, jumping. Then suddenly, there was Harry, Harry and Voldemort, facing each other, wands locked, and on Voldemort's shoulders the huge bird thing. It flapped its wings around Voldemort's head, talons gouging at his shoulders, pecking at his face with a huge, curved, iron-grey beak.

Then, before Ron could reach Harry, he was blinded by a brilliant light, felt something hit him hard in the chest and gut. He felt his back hit the ground, heard himself squelching in the mud as he tried to raise his head, his hands. Then there was no more sound.

Finally, he gave up trying to move and lay there, cold and wet, rain stinging his face. He concentrated on the smooth surface of the wand in his hand, comforting, until light and shadowy movement began to filter back into his vision. He ran through chess moves in his head, keeping his breathing steady, as he waited for strength to creep back into his limbs.

When he managed to prop himself up on his elbows, he realised that he hadn't gone deaf, there was simply nothing to hear but the sound of rain hitting mud. All around him bodies lay still and quiet, and as he looked around him he saw that over everything - bodies and mud - there was a scattering of white feathers.

 

There was a breeze blowing over his face. He shivered, cold on the damp ground. He groaned as he rolled onto his side. His hand landed on slick earth and sank in a little. He clenched and unclenched his fist, feeling the slide of mud between his fingers. He opened his eyes and closed them again. It didn't seem to make any difference to what he could see: all dark.

Open. Closed. Open.

Still dark.

He left his eyes open for a while, just to see what would happen. His patience was rewarded. It was still dark, but there were now different degrees of darkness; he could make out the possibility of lumpy shapes around him.

He pushed himself up, scrabbling in the mud with both hands until he found a sitting position. He could see a little better now, the darkness resolving into stippled shadows - blending into one another but still distinct - and many, many small patches of grey. One of them was by his right foot. He bent forward and picked it up, twirling it in his fingers. Its edges flickered in the breeze, sodden and muddy. Its centre was pale.

He'd seen something like it before. He ran a fingertip up and down the edge, and gasped. Huge, white wings, talons; red eyes, distracted; a swelling feeling in his own chest, fierce and proud; a blinding light. The image and remembered sensation were so sudden, so bright in his mind that he felt it like a blow.

Harry dropped the feather, stumbling to his feet in the mud. Wand, where was his wand? He needed his glasses. He spent fruitless moments scanning the darkness, distracting himself from the root of the fear tangling in his gut. Where…

Oh, God, where was Draco?

 

Draco's surroundings were completely dark, but still they conspired to spin around his head. He felt numb. He could hardly sense his hands, and his legs seemed to have vanished from the knees down. A sudden, panicked thought passed through his mind. One at a time, he lifted his head, his arms, his legs. He sank back into the mud, weak with relief.

He started wiggling his fingers and flexing his wrists, forcing himself to keep moving through the unbearable tightening and release of his muscles, the pins and needles that followed. He shook out his arms, wincing as circulation returned to his upper arms. Now he could feel how cold he was, he started to shiver. He rolled his shoulders and screamed.

Pain struck and spread through his upper body like lightning sparking fire. He whimpered, shook for long minutes, eyes blinded and ears stopped by the spiking, the burning lancing through his shoulders and down his arms.

It was a shock, then, when he finally became aware of another body, a living, breathing body next to his in the quiet darkness. Hands were pressing to his ankles, his shins, his knees, a voice saying, "Draco, Draco," over and over.

"Harry." Draco's voice rasped over his tongue. "Harry, Harry, it's my... ah... I think it's my w-wings."

"Oh, God. Draco, do you have your wand?"

"P-p-pocket, in-inside p-pocket," a shudder wracked Draco's body, "cloak."

Draco was shaking non-stop, nausea swirling around his chest, his throat. He was dimly aware of Harry moving at his side.

"Lumos."

Silence.

"Oh, shit."

"D-don't panic, can't p-panic."

A breathy, wheezing sigh left Draco's lips. Harry's voice when it came again was tight and his words clipped.

"Draco, we've got to get you to a Medi-Witch, fast. I'm going to Apparate us to Grimmauld Place and Floo through to Madam Pomfrey. Draco!"

Draco felt fingers pressing into his cheeks and his head being turned.

"Draco, open your eyes, I need to know you can hear me."

Draco laughed, a cracked sound, followed by a gasp of pain, but he did what Harry asked. All he could see was a pale shape above him, moving against the darkness beyond.

"Draco."

He could hear the hitch in Harry's voice.

The pale shape drew closer and kissed his lips. Draco closed his eyes again, touched the tip of his tongue to his upper lip. He tasted salt and metal.

"Draco." Harry's voice was soft now and Draco could feel his breath in warm gusts across his nose and lips. "Draco, the Apparition is probably going to hurt... a lot. I've got hold of you and I'm not going to let go - God, I'm never going to let go - but I'm going to need you to hold on to me too. Can you do that?"

Draco brought his hands up, groping in the air until he touched something damp and cold, firm under the pressure of his fingers. He gripped tight, tighter, digging in fingers and thumbs. Harry made a panting noise above him. Draco's own breath was short, halting.

"Okay, Draco. I'll count us down. Four, three, two, one..."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hpqfac (Harry Potter Quills for a Cause - 'proving that hot monkey sex can stop AIDS'), sponsored by melusinahp. I used the lines of Teardrop by Massive Attack/Liz Fraser as prompts, one for each day of February - see after the fic for the lyrics. I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading it.
> 
>  **Teardrop** by Massive Attack with Liz Fraser
> 
> Love, love is a verb  
> Love is a doing word  
> Feathers on my breath  
> Gentle impulsion  
> Shakes me  
> makes me lighter  
> Feathers on my breath  
> Teardrop on the fire  
> Feathers on my breath.
> 
> Nine night of matter*  
> Black flowers blossom  
> Feathers on my breath  
> Black flowers blossom  
> Feathers on my breath  
> Teardrop on the fire  
> Feathers on my
> 
> Water is my eye  
> Most faithful mirror  
> Feathers on my breath  
> Teardrop on the fire  
> Of a confession  
> Feathers on my breath  
> Most faithful mirror  
> Feathers on my breath  
> Teardrop on the fire  
> Feathers on my breath
> 
> You're stumbling in the dark  
> You're stumbling in the dark
> 
>  
> 
> * I researched 'nine night' and discovered it is, or was, a Jamaican funerary rite, which I tried to reproduce as faithfully as I thought would be possible in the confines of Grimmauld Place.


End file.
